


Escape

by FleetingDesires



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Depressing, Grief/Mourning, Holmescest only with shipper glasses on, Hurt No Comfort, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:02:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28751100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FleetingDesires/pseuds/FleetingDesires
Summary: Inhale, and exhale. Something that Sherlock isn't doing. No matter. He is used to picking up Sherlock's discarded responsibilities. This is just another one in a long list.
Relationships: Anthea & Mycroft Holmes, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 15
Kudos: 18





	Escape

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Binodini](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Binodini/gifts).



> Please heed the tags for your own mental health.
> 
> I always gift my fics to people who inspired the story. Y'all know who to blame for this one. *hides* (Sorry to throw you under the bus, Binodini. You know I secretly appreciate you, I just have a strange way of showing it.)

Mycroft is in the morgue, staring down at Sherlock's lifeless body. His hands are loose on the umbrella in front of him.

He looks on dispassionately, his mind utterly blank save for the bare facts: the marbled paleness of his skin, its translucence. The grimy curls on top of his head, as dormant as Medusa's had been when they separated it from her body. The weak span of his shoulders, cuts visible. The drab, white sheet draped over the rest of him, hanging two inches to the ground.

He doesn't move even as he hears footsteps approaching. He can't. If he moves, if he can affect the world, it would mean it isn't just a bad dream. It would mean that this is real.

They come to a stop behind him. "I'm so sorry, Mr Holmes." It is the voice of Lestrade, bouncing in a familiar manner off the sterile hospital walls. This time, though, it isn't accompanied by the steady beeps of machines in the background.

He forces his body not to tense. Inhale, and exhale. Something that Sherlock isn't doing. No matter. He is used to picking up Sherlock's discarded responsibilities. This is just another one in a long list.

But it isn't long before he can finally ignore it no longer. His hyper-rational brain won't allow him to hide. He hates it. He hates thinking. What is it good for, anyway? Instead, he says, "Do you have the man in custody?"

"Yeah. We found him in–"

"I don't care." He turns from his brother, striding with steady, even steps out of the morgue, out of the hospital, and into his car.

* * *

An hour later he finds himself in a typical "scary" warehouse, of the sort one sees on television. He vaguely wonders why they keep to the trope. Does it scare the people they bring here more than if it were comfortably lit? Peripheral vision would be vastly improved with better lighting. And why is it always so sparsely furnished? A little comfort wouldn't hurt. The rest of the things here would, yes, but certainly not that. He hardly saw the point in skimping. Surely the budget would stretch far enough for padded seats.

His rambling thoughts ground to a halt as a blindfolded man was dragged in, held firmly on either side by two of his agents. Anthea trailed close behind the group. They stopped in the middle of the room, while Anthea stood next to him.

He gave her a brief nod, before he shed his coat, handing it to her. He meticulously undid his tie, removing his tiepin, as well as his cufflinks and pocket watch. All these he put into a pocket of his suit jacket, before he removed it to hand to Anthea as well.

He studied the man in front of him as he began to roll up his sleeves. He was nothing more than a short, stocky man in his late 30s, which a cheap haircut, cheap clothes, horrendous dental hygiene, and a nose that had been broken at least twice. An altogether marginal specimen of the human species.

As he drew closer, foul breath washed across his face. He added halitosis to the list, before he delivered a swift uppercut to the man's jaw. He flexed his fist.

"Let him go," he ordered. "And don't interrupt."

As soon as his arms were free, the man swung at him. Mycroft let his fist connect, the pain serving as both relief and distraction. Finally, some sweet peace from his thoughts. He focused on nothing more than the man in front of him: knees and fists and elbows and footwork, deftly sidestepping a few hits while allowing others to hit.

Nothing else existed in his world, in this moment, except the grunts issuing from the both of them, the blood coming out of his face, the rawness of his knuckles. They grappled each other to the ground, Mycroft quickly rolling them over to drive a fist into the man's face, breaking it for the umpteenth time in his life. That felt good, and little else did. So he did it again. And again, until his opponent wisened up and drove the air out of him with a well-placed hit against his torso. A short bliss.

Mycroft allowed him to continue his assault before he found himself on his back again – but not for long. This street brawler was no match for an elite-trained MI6 agent. He let muscle memory take over, his mind ceding control over his body as he writhed and twisted and hit until he found himself straddled across a wide back, the man's arm held twisted and broken to it by one hand as the other held firmly on to his hair, brutally smashing it into the floor.

Yes. The cracking sound it made was like music to his ears. He endeavoured to create it again. He craved a veritable orchestra of cracks, understanding now the sparseness of the room. It allowed sounds to reverberate well, one crack blending into another in a sweet, sweet symphony. He barely noticed that the man under him had stopped moving. All he cared about was making music.

He snarled as someone attempted to wrench him away, a fist swinging out wildly against his attacker, growing more agitated as it hit solid muscle. Finally, someone who could pose a challenge. However, before he could do much more than think about it, he found himself restrained, and he kicked and roared against them blindly, instinctively trying to escape the hold.

He barely registered it when Anthea stepped into his vision. _SLAP!_ The sound rang out into the room, his face burning as he looked at her in outrage and confusion. _SLAP!_ This time, his other cheek burned to match its mate.

He breathed hard as he finally stopped writhing, the shock of his trusted assistant assaulting him sufficient to jolt him back into his senses, his mind wrenching back into control. He sagged in the hold of his agents, devastation writ large across his face. He was released as Anthea stepped forward.

"That's enough now, sir," she murmured, a comforting touch on his shoulder. "That's enough now."

Mycroft shook his head violently as his vision swam. He collapsed to the ground, pressing his palms to his eyes. "Nothing will ever be enough," he whispered brokenly, the tears starting to fall as he rocked himself back and forth.

Anthea got down next to him and put her arms around him. He fisted her shirt tightly as he wept into her shoulder, silently screaming, his shoulders shaking with the effort. He couldn't have stopped the deluge even if he had tried. How was he expected to go on? To be Mycroft without his Sherlock? What was the point of leaving him alive when his whole purpose of existence was dead? All this pain, and what was it worth? They should allow him to follow in the footsteps of the ancient Egyptians and bury himself in next to Sherlock. There was hardly any point to his continued use of the Earth's finite resources. Somebody else would make better use of it.

His mind rambled on and on until he heard his name. _Mycroft_. _Mycroft_. His consciousness swam towards it. "Mycroft." It was Anthea. She stopped stroking his hair as he released her, lifting his head from her shoulder. He couldn't muster the energy to lift it and look at her.

"Come on, sir, we can't stay here all night. Let me take you home," she said kindly.

He shook his head. "I can't go home," he whispered. "Lockie…" Too much Lockie. Too many memories. He remembered the dishes they had left in the sink before rushing out that morning.

"Alright. I'll take you to my home, then. Can you stand?"

He tried, and found that he could. He stared blankly at the spot the man once laid on the floor, now empty except for smears of blood.

Anthea took his arm and tugged him firmly towards the door, forcing him to turn away from the sight. Fine. She could do what she liked.

* * *

Well, apparently what she liked was to shove him fully clothed into an ice-cold shower. "What the _fuck_ ," he gasped, the world coming back into sharp focus as the cold seeped into his bones and stung his knuckles. He blinked the water away from his eyes, turning to look at her incredulously.

"Oh, good," she said unrepentantly. "I'm sorry, sir, I really am. But life must go on enough for you to take a shower at the very least. I won't ask any more of you tonight. Okay?"

He sighed, wincing as the cold water woke him up to all the pains in his body as it seized under the temperature. Tiredly, he nodded.

"Good. I've left you some clothes left by an ex-boyfriend of mine that you can wear tonight, and I'll bring over some of your things tomorrow." Without waiting for a response, she turned and left the bathroom.

It was only 45 minutes later, as he sat on a bed, letting Anthea bandage his knuckles, that he spoke again. "Thank you, Anthea. I'm not sure what I would have done without you tonight."

"Only tonight?" She teased, eliciting a weak smile from Mycroft. She sobered as she continued. "It's far less than what you've given me over the years. So I'm glad to help. That I can help." She patted the bandage as she finished her work. "Now, go to sleep."

He looked tiredly at her before he gave it up, closing his eyes. Okay. He would go to sleep. Maybe he'll wake up from this nightmare next time.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this whole thing while the document was in my trash folder. It is not moving out of there. I don't want to remember I ever wrote this. I couldn't even go back to edit it, so apologies for any errors.
> 
> Drop a kudos if you hate me as much as I hate myself right now. Or cry along with me in the comments. *sobs*


End file.
